At the Day's End
by rewritetheending
Summary: "There was no sound until the eventual click of the lock, the sigh of the hinge that was reluctant to make room for him. And even though he'd been expecting it, he was startled when she appeared, slumped against the door jamb..." Episode insert for Rise (4x01), in which Castle goes to Kate during her recovery.


"When I stand before thee at the day's end, thou shalt see my scars and know that I had my wounds and also my healing." - Rabindranath Tagore

* * *

It wasn't the phone call he'd been hoping for, but it presented him with an opportunity nonetheless. And it didn't make him happy exactly; happy would be a poor way to describe the emotions that had caused his heart to swell and his hands to shake. No, he wasn't happy, but some stubbornly naive part of him was optimistic.

Even he didn't have the words to describe how dark his world had become the moment Kate had been shot. When he'd confessed his love and watched her die and wasn't sure whether he was breathing either. Then he'd finally been able to see her in the hospital, only to find out that she didn't remember anything he'd said. And she'd told him she'd call, but after a week of nothing he'd feared that she was pulling away instead. Helpless and left with few options, he'd arranged for private nursing care at Kate's apartment so that she'd have someone to help at home and he'd be able to escape the guilt and panic that were refusing to let go.

Still, he missed her.

So when he got the call informing him that Kate's primary nurse had quit or been fired or whatever had happened after the patient had summoned enough strength to yell at her caregiver until she was left alone, he knew there was a reason for him to go to her.

* * *

He hesitated for a moment before he raised his hand to her door. On the way to her apartment he'd considered saving her the trouble of getting up to let him in; he'd had a spare key since shortly after she'd moved in, so it would be easy enough. But he quickly reconsidered, understanding that he'd taken several liberties since her shooting and encroaching on her personal space without permission was one line he wouldn't cross. He took a deep breath and knocked with a certainty he didn't feel.

The wait dragged on, but he gave her time. He knew he'd been terrible about granting that leeway throughout their partnership, but he had no other choice now. Just standing in her hallway was pushing. Impatiently slamming his fist into the door would get him nowhere at all. There was no sound until the eventual click of the lock, the sigh of the hinge that was reluctant to make room for him. And even though he'd been expecting it, he was startled when she appeared, slumped against the door jamb with an arched eyebrow.

"I guess good news travels fast." Her voice was rough, her inflection somewhere between a joke and an accusation. There was no need to confirm that he'd been responsible for her nursing staff or that he'd had a direct line to her recovery. She was aware.

She slid aside to let him in and he was grateful that he had time to respond. Did she want an explanation? An apology? His words were failing him.

He stepped further into the apartment, but the snap of the door locking served as a warning that she was close behind. Still searching for the right thing to say, his eyes roamed the room, cataloging each detail of her life the way he'd done for years. It was eerily quiet; even the activity of the city outside seemed intent on respecting her silence, and an additional layer of guilt settled on his shoulders.

The kitchen was a bit of a mess, and he assumed it was the scene of whatever event had driven the nurse away. A dish lay broken in the sink, food still stuck to the sides, and two empty cups were on the floor surrounded by dozens of pills and an overturned prescription bottle. _Jesus, Kate._ He raised his head toward the couch, where a small pile of blankets and a couple of pillows rested, the coffee table holding a stack of books, a bottle of water, and a box of tissues.

She shuffled into his line of sight then. How long had he been staring?

"I assume a new Florence Nightingale will be at my door tomorrow morning. Didn't think I could handle one afternoon alone?"

He looked her up and down, his focus landing on where she'd braced herself against the island, unable to stand unsupported any longer. "No."

There was no doubt that she wanted to argue with him, probably swear profusely and storm off or throw him out on his ass; she closed her eyes instead, an unspoken acquiescence. She needed help, and in the absence of her father, Lanie, Josh, or anyone else she might have trusted, she'd have to lean upon him.

One of his arms slipped around her waist, his hand resting low on her left hip so that it didn't press against her incision, and they crept toward the couch, an awkward dance that left her breathless. All of her strength had been siphoned in an attempt to heal the physical wounds and there was nothing left for something as mundane as walking across her living room floor. He eased her downward and watched as she stiffly adjusted her position, searching fruitlessly for comfort, then he sat next to her, careful not to crowd her more than he already had.

Her eyelids fell shut again, a lone tear slipping over the too-sharp slope of her cheek. "I never wanted you to see me like this."

There wasn't much he could say in response; he'd never wanted to see her like that either. So he simply took her hand in his and brushed his thumb back and forth in an attempt to soothe both of them. It wasn't until he remembered the mess in the kitchen that he interrupted their shared calm.

"When are you due to take another round of pain meds?"

She glanced at the clock and sighed. "Half an hour ago."

"Kate-" He stopped himself from going any further. Chastising her about the obvious wouldn't do any good, so he squeezed her hand and then left her behind so he could clean up and retrieve the pills. He brought them back with a cold bottle of water and sat on the coffee table to face her. "What else is supposed to be done today?"

Seemingly resigned to having him there, she answered quietly. "My bandages need to be changed, the wounds cleaned. And I can't move enough to do it myself because of my ribs."

"Your ribs?"

"They broke them to get to my heart, Castle." Her voice cracked just as surely as her bones must have, the vulnerability spilling freely. "I think the nurse left all the necessities in my bathroom."

He nodded once and hurried away, shuttering his own emotion for the moment. When he returned, hands washed and medical supplies collected, he knelt on the hard floor and carefully tugged her toward him. Just as he began to pull at the hem of her baggy shirt, she reached out for him, the tremble in her hand blending seamlessly with the one in his own.

"Wait. I don't…I mean, I didn't…" She took a deep breath. "I'm not wearing anything under this."

Oh. Right. It made sense, but he hadn't anticipated that. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'll just get this taken care of and put it back on as soon as I can, okay?"

She whispered her agreement, a grateful sound that made him ache. Then he tucked his thumbs beneath the fabric and dragged it upward, cautiously keeping it away from her body; she helped when it came time to ease her arms through the openings, but otherwise stayed still. Her smooth skin and sterile bandages were unveiled as he moved, goosebumps washing over each newly-exposed surface, though he'd yet to take note of any of it.

His eyes hadn't left hers.

They both blinked when the shirt was lifted over her head and tossed aside, aware that so much more was to come, but somehow calmed by the unacknowledged truth that he'd spoken on that sunny day and reiterated with a too-intimate stare. Finally, he looked down and studied the situation before him.

The large, rectangular bandage along her left side was certainly striking, but it was the smaller square in the center of her chest that captivated him, the white gauze screaming a reminder that both of their hearts were nearly destroyed by the same bullet. He had to start there; he couldn't turn away from it even he'd wanted to. The soft swell of her breasts guarded the wound, enveloping it as though it were something precious, and he reached forward to reveal it to his morbidly curious eyes. The bandage peeled away easily, so he set it on the table behind him and got to work.

He picked up one of the cloths from the box he'd retrieved and wet it with a saline solution, bringing it to her skin with little hesitation. He had to be strong for her, to let her draw from that well; there would be plenty of time for him to fall apart later. Gently patting the angry circle, he made sure it was cleaned and dried before he pulled out the tube of antibiotic ointment. Using the pad of his finger, he spread a thin layer across the healing wound and concentrated fiercely on whatever magic he could pass from his skin to hers, finally securing a fresh piece of gauze over it once again. A stuttered gasp surprised him until he realized he'd been holding his breath for far too long. _Relax._

"Castle, look at me." He did, more eager to follow her instruction now than ever before. "Take it easy. You've got this."

Nodding once, and swallowing desperately against the lump that had risen in his throat, he turned his attention to the incision site. It took a bit longer to pry the bandage away, the tape clinging to her and leaving a more noticeable path of irritation behind. Why couldn't any of this be easier for her? With a subtle sigh, he uncovered the long line along her side and found his hand coasting over all the bare skin around it; his fingertips tripped down her back, around the flare of her hip, across to her abdomen. She allowed him the time to explore, to reaffirm whatever he'd been questioning, and for that he was grateful. Eventually he was ready to finish, following the same careful steps he had with the gunshot wound until she was protected again.

He grabbed the discarded t-shirt and shook his head at it, scrambling up from his position on the floor and hurrying out of the room. Perhaps he was doing more than she'd ask, but he wanted to make her as comfortable as possible. Returning a minute later with a clean shirt and her hairbrush, he settled onto the couch next to her.

She seemed confused, but didn't ask, letting him quietly manipulate her until she was no longer bare, her injuries out of sight but very much in mind. Then he slowly shifted her to the side and positioned himself behind her head, loosening the elastic band that had barely held her messy bun in place. Her hair fell carelessly and he scooped it up with his hands, combing his fingers through the tangles before using the brush to smooth them away completely. Then he began to braid her hair, fastening the end and letting it rest against her spine. Still weak, she relaxed against the firm wall of his chest and found a way to breathe in time with him.

"Thank you."

He opened his mouth to respond, aware of what she expected him to say, but he couldn't manage it; even that one word was impossible with the unforgiving emotion that had rendered him speechless minutes before. Instead, he leaned over her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her cheek, hoping she would understand the promise even when it remained unspoken.


End file.
